


Side effects

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a romantic in every sense of the word, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Public Blow Jobs, Romance, Slow Dancing, Smut, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wings, but have I mentioned FEELINGS, demonic streams of consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Crowley had imagined it differently. On the rare, very rare occasions when he’d allowed himself to imagine something could happen between the two of them, it didn’t go like this. No – Crowley was suave and sure of himself, not a rambling, babbling mess. Aziraphale was charmed, and flattered by his attentions. They’d take their clothes off slowly, without any urgency. They’d stare into each other’s eyes, and whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. In his imagination, they wouldn’t have been sohungry, so desperate for each other.~~~What if, once they start having sex, they can't stop?Or, an angel and a demon learn to take itslow.





	Side effects

The thought comes to him, unbidden, as he considers the pale expanse of Aziraphale’s back beneath him.

Aziraphale’s back, that looks like rolling hills covered in snow. Which is ironic, because right now, outside of Crowley’s miraculously cool flat, the scorching heat weighs heavy onto the city of London, making the air itself tremble, along with the knees of any passer-by not wise enough to stay indoors. It’s the kind of heat that makes Crowley wonder whether it was even worth it to save the world, seeing as it’s turning into a pile of burning goo anyway. He took credit for global warming with a big grin on his face, telling Headquarters the world was getting hotter, just the right temperature for a snake as himself.

But that’s not the thought. The thought. The thought is—

Aziraphale’s back looks like rolling hills covered in snow. Or something else equally peaceful and soft. Crowley has always been shit at metaphors. Words in general escape him, especially when Aziraphale is concerned. Crowley’s serpentine tongue never quite got the hang of words, just like his human form never quite got used to having limbs. Weird appendages hanging from his body. But how grateful he is for them, now that he can sink his fingers into Aziraphale’s hips and pull him back onto him.

He keeps losing the thought. It’s there, right at the edge of his consciousness, but it’s also very hard to hold on to any thought while you’re sinking into your best friend. Your only ally in the universe. Your love.

Crowley never really did acknowledge how he felt about Aziraphale. It’s not like, at some point in time, he sat in front of a mirror and told himself he felt something for the angel that surpassed love. Something urgent, and desperate, and tender. Something that made him feel small, and dumb, and sort of mushy. It was a thing that wasn’t, and then it was, and then it got stronger and stronger. He tried to scare the feeling away, and it didn’t work. He tried to wait it out, and it didn’t work. He tried to ignore it – and, surprise surprise, it still didn’t work. He tried to hide it, and there were lapses. So many of them. Off the top of his head, when he’d found out Aziraphale wasn’t gone forever, at the pub where he was drinking himself under the table. He’d been drunk, and he couldn’t see himself, but Crowley knew – his lower lip had _wobbled_ as he explained he thought he’d lost his best friend. _Wobbled_. Piss-poor excuse of a demon that he is.

So, anyway. It’s a whole thing. Sometimes, he let it air – in the way he looked at Aziraphale, in the way his whole uncoordinated snake body tensed and twisted towards him like a flower to the sun (shit at metaphors, he is). In favours big and small. In the time spent together, drinking and talking about everything and nothing. In the complete and total absence of the word _no_ from his vocabulary.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had been a walking, talking neon sign that spelled _no_ in big bright red letters. Crowley didn’t need to ask to know that, as long as Aziraphale remained in the clutches of Heaven, he would have rejected him. Even if Crowley’s feelings were requited – _especially_ if Crowley’s feelings were requited.

Aziraphale could say what he wanted; Crowley knew there had to be _something_ there. He knew that Aziraphale liked him. More than liked him, possibly. Crowley could sense it in the air. And he really wanted to skip any conversation on the subject and do _something_ about it.

Yes, maybe he had wanted to take Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kiss him stupid for the longest time. What of it? Really, it annoyed Crowley more than it could bother anyone else. Maybe he’d wanted to wrap his spires – well, _arms_ – around Aziraphale, and flicker his tongue against the soft skin of his neck, make him whimper a little bit, see what that sounded like. So what?

No big deal, really. He would have acted on his impulses long ago. He would have, if – if he didn’t care about Aziraphale so goddamn much. Aziraphale had been afraid, and that just wouldn’t do.

The angel had waffled for years and years. Reeling him in and pushing him away. He’d hesitated, still needing to work through his many hang-ups about Heaven and Hell, because Crowley might have been _deep down just a bit a good person_ or whatever, but he was still a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel. So, Aziraphale kept a foot in the door, never quite choosing him but never quite letting him go.

Crowley had been in Heaven, and he’d been in Hell, it seemed only fair he’d spend some time in Purgatory.

For six thousand years, Crowley had known that, eventually, Aziraphale would realize Heaven wasn’t any better than Hell. He would break free from Heaven’s grasp, for sure, at some point. Crowley was also aware, though – that choosing to leave Heaven didn’t automatically mean choosing him instead. So, for six whole millennia, he hadn’t let himself hope.

Maybe the whole ordeal would have been easier if, upon meeting Aziraphale in the Garden of Eden, he’d known it’d take the angel six thousand years to reach out and touch him. But he hadn’t known, way back then. He hadn’t known throughout the course of human history. There had never been any guarantee. And, truly, Crowley would have been content enough knowing Aziraphale had freed himself from Heaven’s tight fist. As much as it pained him to admit it, he just wanted Aziraphale to be happy, whether that included Crowley in some measure or not.

Crowley, well. He could have been happy enough, even without the knowledge of what the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth tasted like, or without ever feeling the weight of his ass into the palm of his hands. It’s such a human thing, this – the physical desire, very much not angelic. Not quite demonic either. Very, very human.

They aren’t human, though. They’re the closest an angel or a demon will ever get to being human, and they’re still pretty far from it. So, after Aziraphale reached out, after Crowley didn’t say no, curling into his touch like he’d been starving for it (he had), they fell together into a bottomless pit, and have yet to see the end of it.

It’s so hot outside, they must be in the dead of summer – how much time has passed? Crowley is not sure. He lost track of the time of day, then of the day altogether. When their lips first touched, a miracle six thousand years in the making, it was like a dam breaking, and everything came pouring out. Six thousand years of fears, hopes, desires, long repressed but never forgotten. And, since they aren’t mortals, and aren’t bound by human limits, it went on and on. They haven’t really left Crowley’s bed since then. Crowley hasn’t had a thought other than _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_, for maybe two whole months. It’s fair, he guesses – after all, it takes a while to consume millennia of pining.

The thought. Right. He had a thought. Aziraphale moans back at him, and _Crowley, please, yes, like that, goodness, you’re so—_and Crowley almost loses his thought again, a marble rolling dangerously close to the edge of the table. He catches it just before it can slip away.

The thought is this: he’d imagined it differently. On the rare, very rare occasions when he’d allowed himself to imagine something could happen between the two of them, it didn’t go like this. No – Crowley was suave and sure of himself, not a rambling, babbling mess. Aziraphale was charmed, and flattered by his attentions. They’d take their clothes off slowly, without any urgency. They’d stare into each other’s eyes, and whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. In his imagination, they wouldn’t have been so _hungry_, so desperate for each other.

But of course they are. They couldn’t _not_ be.

He’s getting lost again. Aziraphale reaches behind him, grasping at his thigh, urging him forward, and Crowley’s mind goes blank. Well, not blank—_Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_.

* * *

He rips himself from the bed, from being wrapped around Aziraphale’s body (they fit together so damn perfectly, he never knew they would fit together like that) to force himself into the shower. A long, cold shower. Yes, that’s what he needs. No more cleaning himself with a snap of his fingers just to dive back into it. If he wants to accomplish anything, he needs to think _straight_ – fancy that.

The shower does help a little bit. Normally, he would go back to the bedroom wearing nothing, or with a towel hanging from his hips. There is nothing normal about this situation, though. He wraps himself in a thick bathrobe and hangs in the doorway, pointedly avoiding looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who must be still naked in his bed, pink skin swallowed by Crowley’s black silk sheets. He thinks of the bite marks he left on the back of the angel’s left thigh, just below his butt cheek, and shivers in his bathrobe. _No, you foolish demon. Focus now._

“Let me take you out to dinner.” He forces the words out. He hears himself and realizes immediately that he mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Hm?” Aziraphale’s voice is thick and a little hoarse. Crowley _does not think_ about that voice jumping from moans to whispers to pleas to _howls_ to purrs to sighs. Nope. He’s thinking that he’s forgotten to dry his legs, and he’s dripping all over the floor. That’s what he’s thinking. A perfectly mundane concern.

“Let me take you out to dinner. Someplace nice.” Crowley enunciates, slowly. He doesn’t want to repeat himself a third time. Doesn’t think he has the willpower to.

Aziraphale is not one to turn down an invitation for food. And yet, he hesitates. “Ah, well… I suppose it’s been quite a while since we’ve gone out, hasn’t it?” Crowley hears his embarrassed smile in the question. A few seconds of silence, then, “Would you mind telling me what day it is?”

“Uh.” Crowley replies eloquently. He searches for his phone (paper calendars only work if you don’t lose track of what month it is in the first place). “August fifteen.”

“_August?!_” Aziraphale exclaims, then he giggles. “Good Lord, we really got carried away.”

Crowley is _not thinking_ about just how much they got carried away. He isn’t. He is also not thinking he could get carried away another couple times. He really isn’t.

“So, uh. Dinner, yes?” He shuffles away from the bedroom and away from the very tempting naked angel lying there, looking utterly debauched.

“All right, yes. I’ll be ready in a jiffy!” Aziraphale chirps after him, having remembered at last that he loves other things in life beside Crowley, and that food is at the very top of that list.

* * *

Truth be told, Crowley gets in the car with no real plan of action. No destination, even. He decides he’ll drive in circles for a while and hope Aziraphale won’t notice while he thinks up his next move. He’s going to need ten minutes just to get used to the feeling of wearing clothes again. Another ten minutes to make sure he remembers how to act one hundred percent human. No claws or scales or fangs or – God forbid – wings. None of that now, for a while at least.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Aziraphale begins, in a way that makes Crowley think he will absolutely mind him asking, “What brought this on? You seemed quite content with our current… arrangement.”

The word ‘arrangement’ sounds so inappropriate for what they have now, but Crowley must admit he can’t think of a better one.

He shrugs, a hand sliding off the steering wheel to wave the question away. “No reason.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale says, in his best _you’re-not-fooling-this-principality-so-you-might-as-well-tak-now_ voice.

“S’nothing.”

“Well it is _something_, isn’t it?” Aziraphale puts a gentle hand on his knee. The Bentley roars, speeding through the busy London streets. Full of tourists this area, despite the smouldering heat. “You never do anything without a reason.”

It is not the time to sit there in awe at the startling intimacy of that last remark, but Crowley takes a few seconds to balk at it anyway. His eyes are on the street, but he’s not really watching. Aziraphale grips his seat but doesn’t protest – yet.

“Just thinking…” He starts. Aziraphale waits. “Should’ve at least brought you out to dinner first, that’s all.”

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s voice has taken a tone so sweet it almost burns his demonic ears off. “You want it to be more romantic.”

Crowley sputters. “I did _not_ say that.” He reaches for something else to say – something more suitable to his hellish nature. “We just—we’ve been at it like animals, is what I’m saying. And uh, that’s fine for me. But you…” He waves away the rest of his sentence.

“You don’t have to be crass now.” Aziraphale sounds miffed. Crowley doesn’t dare look at him. “We haven’t ‘been at it like animals’, Crowley. We’ve been _making love_.” He takes back the hand from Crowley’s knee. He continues in a much lower voice. “At least _I_ have.”

Aziraphale stares out the window and Crowley knows he has fucked up big time. The words _making love_ roll around in his head, finding nothing to grasp onto. Aziraphale truly doesn’t realize the impact his choice of words can have on him.

When it comes down to it, it’s all about the way they make decisions. Crowley decides between two or more options in the same way a bird decides in which direction to fly – instinctively and with little hesitation. Aziraphale makes a decision like an empty glass inside a dripping sink. Drop by drop _by drop_ until it’s full, and it starts overflowing. He decides very, very slowly, and then all at once. He’s flipped the switch from_ ‘we’re not friends, I don’t even like you’ _to ‘_you are the best of God’s creations and I am hopelessly in love with you’_. Crowley has been in quite a few car accidents in his life – people tend to hit him a lot, according to him – but he’s never experienced whiplash as serious as this.

He stops the car in the middle of the street, tires screeching and coming to a halt. The guy behind them swerves and almost drives over a couple on the pavement to avoid crashing into the Bentley. He hits a lamppost instead, but is miraculously unharmed. Other drivers start honking their horns all around them.

Crowley puts a hand on the dashboard and the other near Aziraphale’s shoulder, crowding him into the passenger seat. “I want to have a nice dinner with you, angel. That’s all I’m saying. Will you come with me?”

Aziraphale considers him, eyes only briefly darting to the driver who just passed them giving them the finger.

“All right. Let’s go.” Crowley knows from the angel’s tone he’s not off the hook yet, but at least the night can continue. And suddenly he knows just where to go.

* * *

Crowley parks on the pavement because of course he does, and scrambles out of the car. Aziraphale is surprised enough by his rushing that stays still, allowing Crowley enough time to circle the Bentley and open the angel’s door for him. Aziraphale beams at him as he gets out. _Now that’s more like it_, Crowley thinks to himself. This will be a good date, and he’ll get his chance to be as suave as he wants to be.

They don’t need to hide anymore, so it shouldn’t be a problem that the place he picks is quite crowded. Aziraphale stares at the busy hall, both eyebrows raised. Chandeliers and red paper lanterns hang from the rounded ceiling, and the furniture seems to have stayed the same since the 50s. The room is very hot, and Aziraphale hesitates, loosening his bowtie with a finger. Crowley puts a hand on the small of his back, gently nudging him towards their (miraculously free) table for two.

Their table is right in front of a big empty space. Aziraphale eyes the demon suspiciously.

“Is this a ballroom?”

“No,” Crowley replies, casually opening a menu on the table, so that they both can see. “It’s a restaurant with a ballroom. Look, they have those bacon wrapped plums you like.”

Crowley can see the look Aziraphale shoots him and elects to ignore it. Thankfully, the angel is distracted by the waiter, coming by with his recommendations and taking their order. As the man walks away, a slow ballad starts playing, and a few excited couples start taking the dance floor. Aziraphale watches them from his seat.

“It’s a shame I don’t really know how to dance.” He sighs.

“Well…” Crowley glances at the humans barely swaying in time with the music. “I wouldn’t call _that_ dancing. It’s just an elaborate excuse to hold someone in public.” He leans back into his chair. “Seems nice, though.”

Aziraphale gives him a pointed look. “Do you even know how to dance?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “It’s not hard.”

“I beg to differ.” The angel replies, but then considers the dancers with a long, inscrutable look. “Although this one in particular, maybe…”

Crowley is very careful to keep a completely neutral expression as Aziraphale works through the last knots in his mind. The demon knows better than to interfere with this delicate process – he’s studied it for thousands of years; he knows exactly what to do. It feels nice, for once, to know perfectly well what his place is. His place, right now, is next to Aziraphale, waiting for him to come to the inevitable conclusion – that they have nothing to hide, that nobody’s watching them, and that it would be really fucking nice to dance like any human couple. They’ve never done it before, never _could_ before.

“If you insist.” Says Aziraphale at last, standing up.

Crowley mutters something that sounds very much like ‘_I didn’t_’, but stands up with him anyway, extending a hand.

“I’m warning you, Crowley, I don’t know what I’m doing. I am sure to step on your feet.”

Crowley leads them to the dance floor, pulling him close. “Eh, snakes are pretty used to getting stepped on. Just an ordinary day for me.”

Aziraphale hides an amused smile into the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley is unjustifiably confident in his dancing skills, but there’s very little actual dancing involved here. Aziraphale puts his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, and the demon circles his waist with his arms, keeping him close. Aziraphale is stiff, and he does step on Crowley’s dark boots a few times, but Crowley finds out he doesn’t give a shit. This is just so _nice_. Being out in the open, no one breathing down their necks. Holding each other like this in public, no fear at all, just the electrifying thrill of being free together.

Aziraphale brushes his lips against the side of his neck and Crowley is shocked at the shiver of pleasure that runs down his spine, his eyes rolling back behind his glasses. He clears his throat, regains composure, but the truth is – they’re still so _hungry _for each other. They’ve been starved for so long, it’s not something a few months in bed will fix. He catches Aziraphale’s gaze, and he sees his own surprise mirrored on the angel’s face.

“I… I’m so sorry.” The angel says, staring down at their feet. “You wanted this to be romantic. I can’t seem to be able to help myself.”

“Hey, no.” Crowley nudges his cheek with the tip of his nose, encouraging him to look back up at him. “It’s fine. We just need to figure it out.”

In truth, it’s a lot to ask of their human bodies. These vessels are barely able to hold in supernatural beings such as themselves. And what Aziraphale and Crowley are doing here – it’s completely unprecedented. An angel and a demon going rogue, disassociating themselves from Heaven and Hell, living like humans for millennia. Loving each other for thousands of years, with no outlet for all the affection and the yearning. And then, finally, coming together. Nobody’s done anything like this before. Some side effects are to be expected.

Aziraphale nods. “I know it’s foolish, but I still feel like you could be taken from me at any given moment. Like I… like I have to make the most out of every single second we’re together, I guess.”

Crowley holds him tighter, at a loss for words. He feels the same, but it’s hard to say so out loud, even now.

It’s a few minutes before he speaks again, an idea beginning to take shape in his mind. “You know what, angel? I think what we need is to live a little. We’ve been stifled far too long. We can afford to be a bit reckless now.”

“Are you suggesting a little devil-may-care attitude, maybe?” Aziraphale’s voice still sounds hesitant, but Crowley can feel a little smirk coming through. He rewards the terrible pun with a small nip to his earlobe.

“Let’s go back to the table. I’ll take care of things.”

They sit back down, Aziraphale with a certain spark in his eyes. Crowley looks at him and thinks the ways of the Lord might be mysterious, but they have _nothing_ on the laws of attraction. There is nothing about his angel that is inherently sexy, nothing that should entice him so much – _and yet_. It's in Aziraphale's pale blue eyes, he thinks. The way his eyelashes flutter when he's pleased. The way his gaze lingers and turns away and comes back again. The slight raise of his eyebrows when _oh, Crowley, I really shouldn't, but keep telling me why I could anyway_. The promise of something boiling just underneath the surface. And, bless him, did Aziraphale deliver once the two of them finally fell together in bed. Inept and clumsy and hesitant at first, and still completely perfect.

Crowley fires off a miracle to become invisible to mortals as he slips under their table, already half hard just from remembering what it’s like to roll under the covers with his angel.

“Crowley?” The demon's magic does not extend to Aziraphale, who can choose for himself if he wants to go unnoticed. At the moment, it seems he's made no such effort.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s knees apart and hears a gasp.

“Ea_s_y now, angel. You don't want to be overheard.” He hisses, his cheek against Aziraphale's thigh.

He brings a hand to Aziraphale’s ankle, hiking up his trousers to reach the sock garter and pop open its clips. The angel’s leg tenses under his fingertips as the elastic snaps back. Crowley tilts his head to bite at the plump flesh just below the side of the knee. Aziraphale’s other leg jerks, but he makes no noise. Such a good angel.

Enough of this, though. Crowley grabs him behind the knees and pulls towards him, and Aziraphale allows himself to slouch a bit on his chair, giving the demon easier access. Crowley wastes no time reaching for the buttons of the angel’s trousers. For once, he’s glad Aziraphale wears two-hundred-year-old clothes, because his underwear has buttons too, which right now are a godsend. In no time at all he’s pulled out Aziraphale’s cock. He finds him already hard, of course – that is rather the problem here. Well, not so much of a ‘problem’, really. More like an unexpected response to their getting together.

As he wraps his lips around the head of the angel’s cock, Aziraphale begins shooting off a series of small miracles. First, he miracles his shoes off his feet, so he can put a leg over Crowley’s shoulder and nudge him closer with the back of his sock-clad foot. Crowley would have had no objections if he’d done that with his shoes on, but of course Aziraphale has his precious standards. Accidentally, though, Aziraphale has also miracled Crowley’s boots off his feet, and now their shoes sit side by side under the table. Crowley lets out something like a laugh, knowing his angel will feel every last bit of it vibrate into his flesh. Aziraphale’s thighs twitch under Crowley’s hands. He relaxes his throat to take him in farther and hears something dropping to the floor – a fork, a spoon, something like that.

Aziraphale miracles the tablecloth to be longer. He also unintentionally makes the lights in the whole restaurant flicker off and on for a few seconds. Crowley smirks – as much as he can anyway, considering the circumstances. Aziraphale blinks into existence a soft, large pillow under Crowley’s knees, and that’s so fucking sweet, and also completely unnecessary, and Crowley can read between the lines. Aziraphale won’t let him forget – he wants his demon to be comfortable because they’re _making love _here. He’s still managing to get his point across in an argument they’ve had half an hour ago, even though he’s receiving a surprise blowjob under the table of a restaurant. He’s such an obstinate bastard. Crowley loves him so much.

And he’d love to take his time and tease him, be rewarded with the vast variety of noises Aziraphale can make for him, but this is not the place for that. He wastes no time letting his tongue press into Aziraphale’s cock in the way he knows he adores, bobs his head as he sucks, aware the angel can’t very well guide his head with soft, firm fingers into his hair.

He pictures Aziraphale over the table, probably bright red in the face, clutching at the tablecloth, avoiding everyone’s gaze, and still just enough of a pervert not to miracle himself invisible. Then again, it was Crowley’s suggestion to blow off some steam. He’s one hundred percent sure that if he were to remark, later on, that Aziraphale could have shielded himself from everyone’s eyes, the angel would reply he was just following Crowley’s directions. Therefore, it was all Crowley’s fault, the wily old tempter. _Fuck_, Crowley thinks as moves faster and harder, _I want to fuck all the holier-than-thou out of you_.

But then he also doesn’t. Because Aziraphale is perfect just the way he is, even when he drives him up a wall. Crowley will settle for _trying_ to fuck all the holier-than-thou out of him, knowing full well that it’s an impossible task, and therefore one to be undertaken again, and again, and again, until time spins out.

He can feel that Aziraphale is close, just a few seconds away from coming, maybe – a glass shatters against the floor, and Crowley has the presence of mind to stop time all around them.

“_Oh, thank you_—” Aziraphale’s hands are on him before he can process the words, and finally the angel is fully letting go, hips jerking up and off the chair, noises unrestrained as he finishes into Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley accompanies him with his lips and tongue, slowing down little by little, then stopping completely. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he pulls back.

He helps Aziraphale with his shoes and puts his own back on before coming out. He sits down and lets the flow of time go back to normal, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Oh.” Aziraphale exclaims as he looks at Crowley.

“What?”

Aziraphale reaches out and plucks a bright yellow flower from behind the demon’s ear. Crowley blinks.

“I must have put it there, accidentally… I got carried away. So sorry.” He leaves the flower on the table. Crowley reaches out and takes it, tucking it carefully into his pocket.

“Mine now.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course.”

“So,” Crowley leans in a bit closer. “How was it?”

Blood rushes to the angel’s cheeks once again. He starts to reply, but then a horrified look crosses his face. “_Fuck._”

“A…ziraphale?” Crowley looks at him, quite alarmed.

“It’s… I…” Aziraphale fumbles with the pockets of his waistcoat. He pulls out his old pocket watch. It looks like it’s seen better days – its glass is cracked, and it’s not in the shape of a circle anymore. It’s like five extraordinarily strong fingers wrapped around it and squeezed _hard_ and—_oh_. “I, uhm. Needed something to hold on to.” He lets out a long sigh. “In hindsight, not my best idea, but in the heat of the moment…”

Crowley considers the watch. “That’s not something either of us can fix.”

Aziraphale nods, gravely. “I must confess I don’t have the first clue about the internal mechanism that keeps clocks ticking so precisely. This needs human intervention. I will see if I can get it fixed, although I doubt it.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, sips on his wine. He can’t fix Aziraphale’s clock, but there is something he can do. He needs his phone and some privacy, so he excuses himself to the loo – to fix his hair, he explains when Aziraphale gives him a weird look.

* * *

Somehow, he’s managed to convince Aziraphale to let himself be dropped off at the bookshop for an hour or so to ‘check up on his books’ or whatever. Crowley said something about pests loving to get into inhabited places, and how Aziraphale has been gone for months, and that he’d be back to pick him up in an hour exactly, and the angel had agreed. _Never_ would have Crowley thought he’d needed to talk Aziraphale into going at the bookshop. If anything, the demon’s main concern has always been getting him out of it, preferably with him.

Oh, how the wheel turns.

Either way, one hour was more than enough to acquire a couple things he needed. When he stops the Bentley in front of the bookshop and Aziraphale gets in, the angel gasps at the flowers waiting for him on the seat.

“Oh,” he picks them up, the scent of lavender washing over him. He touches the soft white carnations, admires the tiny bright yellow flowers he can’t quite identify – some shrubby kind of chrysanthemum, perhaps. He tries not to prick his fingers on the lilac sea holly flowers. Of course, Crowley is not the type to just go and get him a bunch of ordinary red roses, lovely as they are. Aziraphale has standards, but Crowley has an imagination. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Not thoughtful.” Crowley replies, staring straight ahead as he revs up the engine.

Aziraphale gives him a fond smile. “How is this possibly not thoughtful?”

“In this heat? It’s going to be a nightmare to take care of cut flowers. They’ll rot in the blink of an eye.”

“All the more reason to appreciate them, then.” Aziraphale holds the bouquet to his chest, fingers grazing the brown paper wrapped around the stems. “I already have something that will last forever, after all.”

Crowley runs straight through a red light. _Christ_, the things Aziraphale can say. And in such a casual tone, too.

Aziraphale puts a hand on his knee, and Crowley elects to firmly ignore the way his brain is suggesting he stops somewhere secluded and tries out just how far down his car seats can roll.

From the way Aziraphale is glancing around him, rather than try to _passenger seat drive_ as per usual, Crowley is willing to bet the angel is having pretty much the same dirty thoughts. And they will get to that, surely – may the Bentley forgive them. Just not today.

The same thing happens when they arrive at Crowley’s flat, as they take the elevator of his apartment building. They both look around them and pointedly not at each other. Crowley silently adds the elevator to the checklist. Can’t be that hard to get it stuck for an hour or two.

When they step inside, he lets out a breath of relief. Aziraphale smiles – quite innocently, considering that both him and Crowley are thinking that within these walls they can maul each other in peace. What’s more, they both know what the other is thinking. For once, perfectly in synch.

“It’s going to take some getting used to.” The angel says, taking off his jacket and leaving the flowers on the table. “Now, when I have a thought… I can simply act on it. I never could, _before_. Not even once.”

“And you just happen to have very many_ thoughts_.” Crowley grins at him. He snaps his fingers, materializing black candles all around them. A bit cheesy, but just the right side of demonic. He can tell from the look on his face that Aziraphale is biting back down some comment about how this is tremendously romantic, or something along those lines.

“I would say you have no idea how many such thoughts I have had over the last few millennia, but…” He steps closer to Crowley, slowly reaching up to take off his glasses. “I’ve had the chance to find out you weren’t doing so well yourself.”

“Eh, what’s six thousand years to a demon?” He shrugs, taking the glasses from Aziraphale’s hand and tucking them into his jacket. “I could wait six thousand more if I had to.”

“I couldn’t. I can’t.” Aziraphale leaves a kiss on the side of his face, right on the black snake tattoo near his ear. “I can wait, perhaps, six seconds.”

Crowley takes a step back and away from Aziraphale, earning a confused look from the angel. He smiles at him, pulling out a small black velvet box from his pocket. “But how will you count six seconds on your broken watch?”

Aziraphale lifts both eyebrows, reaching for the box. Crowley opens it for him, presenting him with a brand new wristwatch. “Time of the day, day of the week, day of the month… what have you, it’s all here. Rose gold and quartz. The band is leather. Should hold up well if you end up using it for a few decades. Not that I’m saying you should—I just mean… it could. In theory. That’s all.”

Crowley thinks it’s quite beautiful, and perfect for the angel’s style. But this is the first time he picks something so personal for Aziraphale, so he swallows back his anxiety as he waits for a reaction. The angel seems to be taking it all in – the combination of brown leather and rose gold, delicate but sturdy. The three small circles inside the quadrant, shaped like gears – something modern, camouflaged to look antique. The way Crowley’s traitorous hand starts shaking a little bit with the effort of keeping himself still as he holds out the box.

He feels the urge to snap the box closed and toss it out a window. He would have, a few months ago. He won’t, now, waiting for Aziraphale to speak, even if the tension discorporates him first.

“You…” Aziraphale begins. “Went out and got this for me while I was at the bookshop? Because I broke my other one?”

“No big deal.” Crowley croaks out. “It was on the way.”

“_Crowley_.” Aziraphale says, and doesn’t say out loud _we both know that’s not true_. He doesn’t need to. “I… you’re… _nobody_—” The angel’s voice breaks on the last word.

“Nobody…?” Crowley prompts when Aziraphale doesn’t continue. He’s too nervous to wait.

Aziraphale’s eyes are shining when he looks up at him. His voice is thick. “Nobody has ever, ever shown me such kindness. _Don’t_.” He holds up a finger when he sees Crowley beginning to protest. “It’s true, and I have to say it.”

Crowley shrugs, exhales. “Fine, have it your way. You were kind to me first, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not remember?” He takes the watch from its box. Aziraphale offers his wrist. Crowley pushes his sleeve up, exposing his skin. “When we met, on the wall. You talked to me, and you didn’t have to. You confided in me – you told me about the flaming sword, when I asked you. You could have lied, but you didn’t. And then, you…”

He slides the strap of the watch into the buckle, pulls until it’s secured. Aziraphale holds up his hand, watching the quadrant catching the light from the candles. “The wing?” He asks.

Crowley nods. “You didn’t even think about it.” He reaches out to cup his cheek, his thumb stroking the angel’s cheek. “You shielded me from the first ever rain.”

“Well, of course…” Aziraphale blinks up at him, smiling.

“No. You weren’t supposed to be kind to me. I was just a lowly, random demon you had just met.” He leans down, closing his eyes, forehead against forehead. “But you choose to be.”

Aziraphale gives a weak laugh. “You weren’t just a random demon. You comforted me, Crowley. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t remember.” He puts on his best Crowley voice. “_You’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing_.”

“I do _not_ sound like that.” Crowley grins, both hands on Aziraphale’s face now. “Are we really arguing about who’s been kind first?”

“It appears that we are.” Aziraphale slides his hand under Crowley’s shirt, along the lean lines of his stomach. And he gives Crowley a look – like there are still many things still left unsaid, still many he’s holding back. Funny how Crowley has always been the one with the foot on the gas pedal and, now that they’re here, Aziraphale is the one going too fast, the one who has to bite back the words to try and not overwhelm his demon with too much love. Angels are built to love; demons cower from it. Aziraphale visibly struggles before giving up. He smiles, defeated, letting his query come to light. “I have to wonder… which one of us, first—which one of us loved the other first, that is.”

Crowley’s lips move of their own accord, at first mouthing wordlessly, then, when he speaks, the words roll out quick and loud, without passing through the filters of his brain. “Angel, you must know – it was you from the very start. It’s _only_ ever been you.”

He hears himself and recoils, even though it’s completely true. There’s never been anyone else for him. No one even worth considering.

Aziraphale flushes. He’s gracious enough not to comment on Crowley’s confession, letting him pretend he didn’t just let go of something enormous, something that’s been lodged in his throat for thousands of years, threatening to choke him.

Instead, he begins unbuttoning Crowley’s jacket.

They take off each other’s clothes slowly for the first time. They drift towards the bedroom, discarding a shirt, a bowtie, a pair of pants along the way. When Crowley lays Aziraphale down on the bed, it’s not at all rushed, or rough. It’s soft. He keeps a hand on the back of his neck, the other on his chest, over his heart. Aziraphale caresses his cheek, gentle and tender.

Crowley presses down, skin to skin, and Aziraphale wraps his arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. They both close their eyes for a moment, just savouring the feeling. When Crowley opens his eyes again, Aziraphale does too. The look he gives him is full of longing and love, clear as day.

“I think I’ve figured it out.” He whispers, softy.

“Hm?” Crowley nuzzles his neck, rolling his hips against him, a wave of pleasure coursing up his spine.

“Why I’ve been feeling constantly drunk around you.” Aziraphale opens his thighs, planting his feet into the mattress to grind back against him, making Crowley moan into his skin.

“And—why is that?” He asks, voice thick and low.

“Your love. I’ve felt it for a while, but now… now, it’s like—ah, _oh_, oh Crowley…” despite the lack of urgency, Crowley has set a slow, regular rhythm that’s ruining them both just from rubbing against each other. “It’s somewhat like… being possessed, I guess.”

“Oh.” Crowley is relieved Aziraphale didn’t go for some sappier metaphor, although being told about his love making the angel drunk is embarrassing enough. He sneaks a hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale’s cock, finding him already a little slick. “That’s what happens when you get involved with a demon.”

Aziraphale lets out a breathless chuckle. “Believe me, I have been trying not to.” He grabs Crowley’s face, gently, stopping his ministrations for a moment to look at him in the eyes. It’s so sickeningly sweet Crowley is afraid he might discorporate there and then. He doesn’t. “To no avail. I am yours.”

Crowley kisses him, hard and deep, because if he doesn’t—he might say something. And whatever he would say right now would be lovesick and stupid and pathetic. Aziraphale wouldn’t judge him for it – but Crowley would judge himself. And, anyway, he doesn’t need to say anything out loud, because his angel can feel it, can feel all of it. _I am yours too, Aziraphale. Yours alone. I’ve always been. I am in love with you so much it hurts whatever excuse for a heart I still have in my chest._

When neither of them can take it anymore and Crowley pushes into him, he feels like he’s floating. _This_ is how he was picturing it. The candles, the confessions, their fingers intertwined, the tender kisses even as he starts thrusting into Aziraphale’s body. He realizes he’s well and truly fucked, now there’s really no side of him the angel doesn’t know. He’d like to make some smart remark about how now he’s stuck with Aziraphale for eternity. About how he couldn’t let him leave, now that the angel knows him so well. He’d like to regain control of his voice, make some sarcastic comment, make himself feel better about how completely vulnerable and exposed he is.

He lets it go. He decides to trust Aziraphale with this part of him, with every part of him. He decides, in that moment, he’ll trust Aziraphale with anything.

The angel watches him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He’s so beautiful it takes his breath away. Crowley studies him, shifting his weight, finding the angle Aziraphale responds to the most. He grips his thighs, pushing into him with single-minded focus, wanting to see if he can make him come untouched. Again and again and again he moves in and out, calling to him with his words – _angel, angel_ – and with his love, that he lets flow freely for Aziraphale to breathe in. Until Aziraphale shudders beneath him, wings spreading wide against the sheets with a force that almost unsheathes Crowley.

He keeps moving as Aziraphale comes, helping him along with a few more thrusts, until the angel grips his shoulder, asking him to stop. In a few seconds, his hand goes to Crowley’s ass instead, nudging him to keep going.

And Crowley does. It’s only a few moments before he spills inside him and falls into his arms. Spent, satisfied, deliriously happy.

Aziraphale covers his face with kisses. Crowley slides out of him, cleans them with a wave of his hand, and drapes himself over his angel. He falls asleep right away.

It’s only when he wakes up, hours later, with Aziraphale’s hand gently brushing his hair, the angel’s white wings wrapped around him, that he realizes – this is the first time they manage to cuddle like this. It’s a turning point. Maybe soon they’ll be secure enough in their knowledge that they have all the time in the world they won’t keep jumping each other at every turn.

And if, just an hour later, he bends Aziraphale over the desk and fucks him again right there and then, well. His point still stands. They’re improving.

But he’s in no rush to get there.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote/read a lot of Aziraphale/Crowley taking it slow, so I guess my thought process this time around was 'but let's do the opposite tho??'  
Thanks for reading! 🌸

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Side effects](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837113) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)


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